This been a somewhat frustrating weekend for me. Philip Larkin was spot-on when he wrote This Be Verse. (I leave you to read the poem in your own time. It does have a small typo. I think the second word in the poem should begin with an “m,” not an “f.”)

My Dad, “Sunray,” is a “problem child.” Lonely, with few friends, alienated from most of his family, with an alcohol dependency a “grumpy old man” personality. Not exactly the most attractive thing to write in his online dating profile, but hey, ho, there you go.

Because Sunray has a low boredom threshold. He tends to phone me every two or three times a day on Saturdays, sometimes even more than that, reaching double-figures. The same again on Sundays, even though he knows I am out at church most of the day on Sunday. This being even though I phone him from work three times a week and end up having long chats with him, so he can tell me his “When I was in [insert name of garrison town]…” war stories again and again. And again.

And again.

And Again…

This Saturday I relented and called him back to keep him quiet.

Another anecdote about Fallingbostel 1965, which I’d heard only about…. ooooh… some fifteen times this year…

Three minutes into the call Sunray declares:

Anyway, I don’t want to chat any more. Bye.

Two hours, three hours, four hours later, more phone calls from him. That was the pattern on Friday. This time, on Saturday, I ignore the calls, probably much to his chagrin.

As Schatz was here, I decide to pull out my landline cable to get some peace and quiet. Later in the evening I re-connect the landline. More phone calls from him, not leaving a message. Then at about 20:00 the calls stop. He’s probably drunk his quota of rose wine and climbed into bed for the night, muttering his mantra, “Every single f*cker’s been f*ckin’ me about. Sick and tired of it. People f*ckin’ me about…”

So, a week after I’d told Deckname “Alan,” a friend from church, that I was feeling very down due to a variety of reasons, including SAD and other factors. Since then plenty of WhatsApp messages from him about how he’s been travelling around the English West Country, seeing lots of nice places.

Nice. Very nice.

Bedtime in Germany last night. Radio Four on. The World Tonight. Kindle and mobile my bedmates for the night.

I take my mobile.

WhatsApp time.

G in G: Alan, remember I told you a week ago that I was feeling very down?

Alan: Yes, Ginge in Germany, I do.

G in G: Alan, have you asked me since then how I am?

Alan: I don’t think so.

G in G: (Thumbs-up symbol) Good night. I wish you good dreams.

Fast forward to this morning.

Alan: I will be early to apologise and say sorry now that you have felt neglect.

Better late than never. Hopefully a lesson learnt. Caring about your friends should not always be a one-way street.

The title is a Latin phrase found in the work of the Roman poet Juvenal from his Satires (Satire VI, lines 347–8). It is literally translated as “Who will guard the guards themselves?”

The question in my head at the moment is:

Who cares for the carers?

Sometimes, and I’ll be frank here, I think the answer is: no-one? I’m a member of my local church council. I find it rewarding, and I like to serve man and God by doing all this work, whether sorting the church website or hoovering church carpets when the cleaner is on holiday, or spending hours sitting with fellow members of the congregation, listening to them telling me their problems when they are feeling down.

Yet what happens when the “care bear” and the church leader needs a listening ear? Where are the friends who were there when they were feeling down?

They are either:

Not there at al: radio silence

They are telling you about what a great time they are having on on their hols

Moaning about their latest “playground fight” with a fellow member of congregation, followed by a huge long “mea culpa” session

This weekend got too much for me. I ended up at Schatz’, lying on the bed and listening to good mood music such as Rule Britannia. Finally, I decided to stick my shoes on and tell Schatz I was going out for a quick walk to the local bridge over the Autobahn and back to clear my head. Maybe she thought I was planning to jump off the said bridge. I wasn’t. Suicide is Painless, goes the theme tune to M*A*SH. But I wasn’t aiming to find out. Instead Schatz suggested we head the local restaurant and have a few drinks. We did that. Five glasses of Hugo and a good rant about the Ted Stryker fan club later, and I was feeling better. We duly waddled back to Schatz’ house, blood pressure somewhat lower than before.

Yamas!

Moral of this story:

Support your local gunfighter. Support your local church council member.

No matter how down you are feeling, no better how cheery your friend is feeling, ask your friend once in a while how he/she is, especially when you have been told bluntly that said friend is feeling down.

#ActuallyAutistic - An Aspie obsessed with writing. This site is intend to inspire through sharing stories & experiences. The opinions of the writers are their own. I am just an Autistic woman - NOT a medical professional.